


and what time do you call this

by onanotherworld



Series: nudity and coffee [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, check for cavities, drunk!R, im serious, jehan is too good an actor and this is suspicious, jehan scares me too r
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:00:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3306560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanotherworld/pseuds/onanotherworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the <em>fuck </em>are you doing?” The man snarls, fists bunched at his sides. “Do you even <em>know</em> what time it is, it’s fucking <em>two o’clock in the morning</em> that’s what, and—“ </p><p>The blond man stops suddenly in his tirade and his face, from what Grantaire can see, goes red. “Why—why aren’t you wearing any clothes?” The man squeaks, seeming to find his big toe very interesting.</p><p>**</p><p>Wherein, Grantaire is drunk, there is a plan, and Enjolras is confused and sexually frustrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and what time do you call this

“How about no.” Grantaire says, a little too sober to fall for the trick.

“Aw, R, don’t be boring,” whines Jehan, draping himself over Grantaire. “You used to be so much fun, where has the fun gone, I want to know where it’s gone, I want to be with it,”

Grantaire wrinkles his nose at the blast of alcohol laced breath sent straight at his face. “You are far too drunk to be playing this right now.” 

Jehan wobbles upright. “How ‘bout not drunk enough!” he crows excitedly to the ceiling.

“Why do I always have to be the responsible one?” Grantaire complains to no one in particular.

“Tha’s a _lie!_ ‘M always gettin’ you outta scrapes and shit.” Jehan rolls over onto his arm and hits Grantaire in the face with several of his dreadlocks. Grantaire sighs from his position on the floor.

“It’s poetic license,” he says condescendingly to Jehan, “I though you would’ve heard of it, bein’ a poet and all,” and actually, he might be more drunk than me originally anticipated, because no way would he ever say something like that to Jehan when sober and actually expect to keep his balls where they are. 

“I’mma gonna forgive you that, darling,” Jehan narrows his eyes fuzzily and tries to boop Grantaire on the nose, and pokes Grantaire’s eyebrow instead. “’Cause I’m gonna dare you to do a shot for each time you sigh after seein’ that hot neighbour of yours,”

“What, no,” Grantaire tries to swing himself upright, only succeeding to flop onto Jehan, arm still trapped under his body. “That’s unfair, he’s really hot, you sigh too, you can’t make me.”

Jehan looks at him consideringly, “Fine. No shots, then.” He pauses, thinking. Grantaire waits for the metaphorical axe to fall. “But you have to walk naked on your balcony _and_ sing Wreckin’ Ball.” Grantaire stares down in dismay at Jehan’s nose.

“You can’t make me,” Grantaire repeats. Jehan gives him a look that could freeze fire. “You can’t make me?” Grantaire says again, with a hopeful questioning lilt to his voice.

“How very—“ Jehan searches for the right word with comical concentration on his face, “ _quaint_ of you to think so, R.” His mouth stretches in a smug grin. 

Grantaire just looks at him with mounting horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” 

“You promised to never bring it up again,” countered Grantaire.

“No, you said that you _wished_ I would never bring it up again, and if ‘m correct, and I am, then tha’s two different things.” Jehan stares up at Grantaire triumphantly. 

Grantaire wavers, and, sensing weakness, Jehan strikes. “I’ve got phot’gr’phic evidence.”

Grantaire shoves himself off Jehan and puts his head on his knees, pouting. “Fine. I don’ like you anymore, though.”

“Poor baby.” Jehan pats his head smugly. He reaches round Grantaire and grabs the bottle of vodka from the coffee table. “Here, have this, you gotta fort’fy yourself.” 

Grantaire snatches the bottle from Jehan’s hands clumsily and drinks deeply. Head spinning, and suddenly feeling very giggly and the idea of singing Wrecking Ball on the balcony at two in the morning actually seems very good, and hilariously funny idea.

He hiccups once. “Le’s do this.” He stands and stumbles. He hiccups again and giggles at himself. Jehan claps his hands in delight. 

“’ll get the song on my phone,” 

Grantaire tries to pull his shirt over his head, arms getting stuck in his sleeves. It occurs to him that Jehan will be watching. “Don’ look,” he says admonishingly. 

“Honey,” Jehan waves a lazy hand, attention focused now on trying to get his phone unlocked. “’ve seen all the goods before, ‘member that time when we were strip searched by the ‘Merican police?”  
“Nah,” says Grantaire. Reassured, he goes on struggling with his shirt.

“Well, I ‘pose you wouldn’t, not with how smashed you were.” Jehan says magnanimously.

Grantaire unbuckles his belt and slides his trousers down to his ankles and kicks them off. “Are underwear part of my body?” Grantaire wonders out loud. 

“Nope.” Jehan replies. 

Grantaire shrugs and tugs his pants off. “’M cold,” he tells Jehan.

“Got it!” Jehan says victoriously, and shoos Grantaire onto the balcony, both of them giggling like maniacs. It’s a chilly night, with the apartment opposite black and dark. A streetlight illuminates the road below, and the moon lights the night sky. A car engine rumbles in the distance. Grantaire’s and Jehan’s breath makes clouds in the air.

“’M cold,” Grantaire tells Jehan more insistently. His balls feel like they’re trying to crawl back up into his body. 

“Long hair, don’ care,” Jehan replies gleefully, “start singing.” He begins to retreat back inside, still giggling, twirling a finger in his dreadlocks. 

“Hey, where’re you goin’?” Grantaire asks plaintively, turning his head to watch Jehan’s withdrawal. 

I’m going to watch the show,” he says to Grantaire, sounding suspiciously sober.

Loud music begins to flood from Jehan’s phone, and, true to form, Grantaire starts to belt out the lyrics with all the tune of a half-strangled cat.

As Grantaire sang the line, _”Don’t you ever just say I walked away,”_ a loud crash echoed from the opposite apartment, reminiscent of someone falling out of bed, followed by an angry shout and a light flickered on. 

Grantaire hears Jehan cackle madly in the background.  
Nevertheless, Grantaire keeps singing with all the determination that either only a drunk man can have, or one walking to his doom. _”I came in like a wrecking ball! I never hit so hard in love—“_

The opposite doors of the other balcony fly open. Out walks an absolutely gorgeous man, with the blond hair of Apollo and the face of a sculpture. He also looks very, very pissed off. His words dry in his mouth, and abruptly the music shuts off, with only Jehan’s muffled cackles to be heard.

A sneaking suspicion forms hazily in the back of Grantaire’s mind. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” The beautiful man snarls, fists bunched at his sides. “Do you even _know_ what time it is, it’s fucking _two o’clock in the morning_ that’s what, and—“ 

The blond man stops suddenly in his tirade and his face, from what Grantaire can see, goes red. “Why—why aren’t you wearing any clothes?” The man squeaks, seeming to find his big toe very interesting.

“’M not wearin’ any clothes?” Grantaire looks down at himself. _Oh, yes._ He reminds himself that he is, in fact, naked. The man coughs, blush deepening. Grantaire wonders if that blush goes all the way down. 

Judging by the way the man’s face goes beet red, he may have said it out loud.

Sometimes he wonders how this is his life.

The man seems to steel himself and looks at Grantaire again, who tries desperately to focus on something more PG.

“Why are you singing on your balcony at two in the morning?” He asks again, very slowly and clearly. 

“Oh,” Grantaire frowns, trying to remember. “It was a dare.” 

“’Oh’, he says,” repeats the attractive god-man to himself, burying his head in his hands. “’Oh’ at two in the bloody morning, with his fucking abs like he doesn’t walk around shirtless enough-“  
“What?” Grantaire frowns again, trying to keep up.

The flush, which had begun to fade from his skin flared again. “Nothing,” 

At this point, Jehan bursts through the balcony doors, startling the man, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he gushes.

“Hey, Jehan! Jehan, you’re the best,” Grantaire leans on him, forgetting he was the one who made him do the dare in the first place. Jehan ignores him.

“Sorry, I couldn’t stop him, I just put the other idiot who dared him to bed, and the music had already started and he started singing, God, I’m so sorry for waking you—“

“It’s no problem,” the man assures, corners of his mouth pulled tight, eyes darting between Jehan and Grantaire.

“But, Jehan, there’s no one here but us,” Grantaire tilts his head up and sees that Jehan is backlit from the light in the living room, obscuring his face. Grantaire reaches a hand up to pat his face, to make sure it’s still there.

“You have a face,” he tells Jehan solemnly.

“Thank you, Grantaire, I knew this,” Jehan responds fondly. He turns to speak to the man opposite, leaving Grantaire to happily pat at his face, “I’m Jehan, and my friend here is Grantaire. Sorry for disturbing you.”

At the word _friend_ the other man seems to relax infinitesimally. “I’m Enjolras. It’s no bother, I have a day off tomorrow,”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire butts in, “D’you know your name sounds like ‘angel’? You’re really pretty, too,” 

Enjolras appears lost for words. “Ah, um, thanks, I suppose.” 

Jehan stifles a chuckle. “We’ll let you get back to sleep, sorry, again.”  
“It’s okay.” Enjolras seems distracted by the fact that Grantaire called him pretty.

“Goodnight,” says Jehan, and begins to drag Grantaire back inside.

“No, Jehan, I want to keep talking to ‘Jolras, he’s really nice and pretty and stuff,” Grantaire puts up a token effort to stop Jehan. Jehan continues to pull him along as if he weighed less than a bag of sugar.

“Come on, R, it’s to bed with you,” Jehan says, “and, goodnight, Enjolras, sleep well!” Grantaire pouts some more, but his bed seems like a very appealing prospect.

“’Bye, ‘Jolras, I would stay but Jehan’s mean,” Grantaire waves drunkenly over his shoulder, and smiles back. Behind them, Enjolras is still frozen, and looks like he’s blinking in shock.

Enjolras turns to go back inside his own apartment, muttering to himself, “What the actual fuck?”

***

“You know, I don’ think you’re drunk _at all,”_ Grantaire accuses, stumbling. 

Jehan grins. He taps the side of Grantaire’s nose, unerringly accurate, “Don’t worry, it’s all part of the plan,”

Grantaire considers this. Then he says, “Jehan, you scare me sometimes.”

Jehan’s grin gets wider. “Aw, baby, you say the sweetest things.”

**Author's Note:**

> almost called it 'never fear 'cause alcohol is here'


End file.
